


Wrecking Machine

by justayellowumbrella



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justayellowumbrella/pseuds/justayellowumbrella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past has taught John to heal his own wounds (or ignore them completely). But when a new number has ties to some old history, it may take more than one man to set things right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Wrecking Machine 谋杀机器（Translation/翻译）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5968942) by [sandunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandunder/pseuds/sandunder)



"We're done here, Finch."

Reese slipped out through the back door, flipping up his collar. The snow was coming down heavier.

He moved discretely.

The Number was safe, but the back of his mind was buzzing.

He stared at the car. Government plates. Motor off, a faint silhouette inside. It had been there awhile now because the snow was covering it.

And he knew.

He hesitated.

"Finch?"

A dark overcoat stepped out.

Reese pulled his own gun, before the coat, but the shots rang out at the same time.

Two bullets, one echo in the nearly empty street, a juxtaposition to the graceful, silent flakes.

"Mr. Reese?"

He cursed softly, rolling to his knees, the snow no cushion.

"Fine," he lied.

* * *

If Fusco were being honest, it creeped him out that Finch even knew he was in the same neighborhood as his wayward employee.

Or that he specifically knew the detective had "passed by the establishment a mere ten minutes ago".

He wouldn't even bother, if Fusco hadn't owed Finch a favor. But the guy had saved his ass, so there was that.

Such it was that he found himself, in a dive bar on a snowy Monday evening, scanning the dingy room for their mutual friend.

When he sank onto the old stool next to the man of the hour, he gave a gruff, "Hey."

The man in the suit's reaction to him was just a hair slower than normal. He gave a curt nod in greeting. "Lionel."

"Answer your phone anymore?"

"Dead."

"Does Glasses buy that excuse?"

No answer.

Fusco shook his head. What was he even doing here? What Reese did on his own time was his own time.

These guys needed more friends.

Reese motioned to the bartender, signaling for another.

"Hey." Fusco frowned.

"S'okay." Reese turned his head, lifting his chin and giving Fusco an appraising look. "You too?" He signaled the bartender to make it two.

Fusco shook his head at the barkeep. "No thanks," he mouthed.

"Lionel." Disappointment.

Fusco frowned at the slightly slurred use of his first name. "Just how many shots have you had, Wonderboy?"

"Just one," Reese defended. His eyes flickered down to his abdomen before catching himself. He looked to the refilled glass on the weathered bar top. Oh. "Shots," he repeated, actually registering the question.

"You were shot?"

"What?"

Fusco reached for the overcoat that hid the Reese's midsection, but his hand was knocked away.

A teasing tone, an amused smile. "If you wanna get lucky, Detective, you're gonna have to drink a little first."

Fusco growled something under his breath and reached for him again.

"Detective..." The word was iced with a warning this time, all teasing abandoned. Reese glared at him, took a long drink from the glass. Grimaced.

"You said you were shot," Fusco said, trying to keep his patience.

"Never said that."

Fusco's eyes narrowed.

Reese's voice was calm. "Have a drink, Lionel."

"Do I need to arrest you?"

The look on Reese's face was loud and clear. Good luck.

Fusco grew annoyed. He reached out and took the challenge, grabbing Reese's arm as he blocked a second time, yanking back. Reese countered quickly enough, almost knocking Fusco from his stool. But it was enough.

The white shirt, hidden again, had been caked in blood. And not a small amount.

Reese shook the grip off his arm. A glare, a slight shake of the head. A slow drink from his glass.

"What the hell?" Fusco hissed.

The bartender was eyeing them now, particularly Fusco.

Reese took another swallow. He stared at his drink, circling it slowly in his hand.

"You're bleeding. You know that?" Fusco shook his own head. Honestly.

"Not mine."

"Where's the other guy then? You drive 'em out to Oyster Bay?"

Silence. Reese was staring sedately at the glass.

"C'mon. Let's go." Fusco was on his feet.

"Suck it up." The words were mumbled.

Fusco shook his head. "What?" The dimness of the room was the only reason he could have missed it before, because Reese was looking rather pale.

Reese, unruffled, gazed back at him, focusing on the detective's holster first, the badge clipped to his belt. Last to his eyes. "I can suck it up. One last drink. Then bed."

* * *

_2007_

"Suck it up, John." Kara was impatient, annoyed even. She grabbed a half empty handle of liquor from a shelf and shoved it at him roughly.

Reese took the bottle before it fell from her hand, but didn't unscrew its cap. He lifted the towel pressed to his side, waited a second and then watched the ooze begin again, a mix of darker clots and fresh blood, bright and red.

"Fuck..."

"You want to?" Kara shrugged, stepped toward him.

His blue eyes shot daggers.

She pushed him until he was at the bed, until he was losing his balance, sitting, then lying back.

"Kara-"

She was straddling him then and he hated it, pushed back at her, but she liked that. He knew. So he stopped.

The handle was pried from his fingers; he heard the metal of its cap unscrewing.

Her palm was on the flat of his stomach and he reared upward when he felt the burning, stinging, fire of the liquor. But her hand was on his chest now, pushing him down.

"Fuck," he repeated, nearly a whisper.

"Thought you didn't want to?"

He squeezed his eyes shut. Going somewhere else in his mind.

Kara slapped his cheek. "Stay awake."

"I'm awake," he hissed, eyes opening, aimed at her.

She was done with her game, off of him and throwing the bloody towel onto his stomach. Taking a drink from the bottle.

"Clean up," she said. The words were clipped. "Meet us downstairs. One drink."

One drink, he repeated in his mind.

"Unless..." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Unless you want to go home?"

One drink.

"John?" Irritated.

"One drink," he agreed.

He didn't have to look at her to see the self-satisfied look on her face.

One drink. Sleep it off. They were out in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

One palm against the graffitied wall of the men's room seemed to be the only thing saving him from gravity.

Reese hung his head down, breathing deeply through his nose.

The third drink might have been unnecessary.

He snapped his head up at a sudden nudge to his shoulder, spinning around from the urinal.

" _Lionel_. Boundaries."

"What, you're gonna shoot me?" Fusco nodded towards the hand Reese had tucked under his coat.

The hand came back out. Slowly.

"You don't look so good."

In truth, Reese was starting to see more than one Fusco, and one was more than enough.

"Thanks." Gruffly.

"You're welcome." Just as gruff. "We done here?"

"We?"

"I'll give you a lift."

Reese eyed him cautiously.

"C'mon. I'll even let you sit in the front of the cruiser for a change."

Reese found his balance, pushed past him.

Outside, the snow was still falling. Their breath was clouds of smoke.

He waited until they were nearly at the car, Fusco digging in a pocket.

A jingle. Fusco looked up.

Reese was dangling the keys to squad car.

"You should be more careful, Detective."

Fusco stared at Reese, incredulous. Whether shock or alcohol were contributing to the inebriated demeanor, he shouldn't have let his guard down.

"Son of a bitch."

The keys didn't make a sound when they hit the snowdrift.

"G'night, Lionel."

* * *

The following morning, a box of rainbow sprinkle donuts hit the desk.

Finch looked up, relieved to see him. "Mr. Reese."

Reese could feel his employer looking him over. Checking for damage. Itemizing. He allowed it, a second maybe, and then moved away from the discerning eye.

"I'm okay, Finch."

" _Okay_ has become a relative term for you of late."

Reese ignored the pointed statement and studied the new 5x10 affixed to the glass. "Who do we have?"

No response.

Reese turned. Still being watched. "Finch?"

"May I suggest a day off?"

"I'm fine."

Finch swiveled in his chair, gaze now direct. He saw the flushed cheeks accentuating the cheekbones. The darkness under the blue eyes. "I'm in the midst of digging some background on Mr. Fitzgerald as it is. I'll be certain to request your reconnaissance when needed."

"Finch." Softly.

Finch turned back to the screen.

Reese waited. A tiny jackhammer played on his skull.

"The hard drive on the cabinet behind you." Absently.

Reese went to retrieve it, second nature.

Finch swiveled back again, observing silently. Ambidextrous by nature, Reese more often performed tasks left-handed. This time, a favoring of the right side. A hidden wince when reaching.

Finch's eyes were back to studying strings of code when Reese returned with the drive.

The younger man realized, a moment too late. "You didn't need this."

"I did not," Finch agreed, meeting his eye. He took the outheld item anyway. Raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Har-old." The two syllables were drawn out.

"I understand, Mr. Reese, that self-preservation is not an asset you possess-"

"Recon only then." Reese didn't let him finish. He reached for the donut box, sliding it forward. He studied the selection a moment before taking the one with the most sprinkles. A massive bite. This was not the first time this conversation had played out. "Nothing physical."

Finch pressed his lips together.

"No combat," Reese added. A few sprinkles fell from the donut onto the desk.

Finch gave him a look.

Reese flicked the crumbs with a finger. "You can come with me, Finch." A hint of amusement in his eyes. "It'd do you good, some sunlight."

He was good at that. Diverting the attention off of himself.

"I get sunlight every day, thank you."

Reese was pulling up a chair, ready for information. Not taking no for an answer.

He pushed the box of donuts back toward the keyboard as he dropped into the seat now beside his employer. As if the offering of glaze and sugar would tilt the hand.

Finch allowed it. This time. "Who was it?"

Reese shrugged. One shoulder. "A ghost."

Finch turned to eye him, that awkward shifting of the upper body. A ghost from the past.

"And?"

"And... it's done for now."

"For now," Finch repeated. Though he had once told Reese he knew exactly everything about him, there were major holes in that history even he wasn't privy to.

"We can focus on that when my number comes up, Finch. Another time."

A look of reproach.

Reese ignored the look, nodding to the screen. "Show me what we've got."

The screen remained with strings of coding.

"C'mon, Finch."

"Nothing physical," Finch repeated his earlier words.

No response.

"No combat." He waited. "John."

"Okay."

Finch pulled up the info on Fitzgerald.

He thought back to the annoyed texts he had received the night prior. The last one in particular.

_Captain America is all yours. Good luck._

Good luck indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

_2007_

"It was a _child_ , Kara."

"Bearing a semi-automatic, John." She gave him a long look. A disappointed smile. "They're all the same."

"He was six."

"And fucking _armed_. Just like his daddy or uncle or whoever the hell he would have grown up to be."

Reese shook his head, disgusted.

He had played with a loaded gun when he was six too. He had earned a spanking, not a bullet through his brain.

"So that's it then, no cheers?" Kara had already given up her upheld drink and taken a swallow, done with the debate.

He drank from his own glass. No celebration.

She leaned into his arm. "I told you, if you don't like your job-"

"I like my job," he said, cooly.

Their handler's arrival interrupted her response.

"A little slow on the trigger, John." Snow grabbed the back of Reese's neck and squeezed. Whether it was meant as a warning or a gesture of camaraderie, Reese didn't care. Didn't care for Kara's knowing look.

He twisted on the barstool, shrugging off the hand. "Did I miss, Mark?"

"No, John." A smirk. "You never miss."

Kara had already noted the black binder under Snow's arm. "Homework?"

Snow saw her look, passed her the papers. "No celebratory rest tonight."

"Where to?"

"Moscow. You're out in three hours."

Kara pushed the binder at Reese, catching his still healing torso with the edge. His body was on fire, but he hid any reaction, not giving her the satisfaction.

But she knew.

"We good, soldier?" Smug.

Ignoring the scrutiny Snow gave them. A hardened look to Kara.

"We're good."

* * *

Fitzgerald's brownstone had a security camera mounted above the front door.

Reese avoided its eye, checking the street. Approached outside the video's range.

The wind was picking up.

The snow wasn't pretty. The drifts were dirty now, slushy on the edges. It had soaked through past the hem of his pants.

He pulled his black knit hat further over his ears and sighed.

Fitzgerald had four locks on his door.

"This guy is more paranoid than you, Finch."

"What was that?" The unamused voice in his ear had clearly heard him.

Reese smiled, didn't respond. Turned his attention to the locks.

He was fighting some dizziness now, starting to think about cabbing it back.

Fourth lock picked, the door swung open when he tried the knob. A staircase in front of him, a large library type of room to the left.

Books, lots of books. And papers.

The room looked like someone had emptied out bins of notes and newspapers, then opened a window and let the wind reorganize it.

"Finch?"

"Mm."

Reese fingered a few of the scattered newspaper clippings. Words circled in red. "Did you know that fluoridation is part of an elaborate Illuminati plot?"

"Indeed, Mr. Reese." Finch's voice was even toned at the other end of the com. "And that HIV, even cancer for that matter, was invented by our government?"

Reese tilted his head. That one he would actually have to think about.

Finch continued. "I do believe I just found Mr. Fitzgerald's blog."

Reese looked around. "No computer..."

"No, our conspiracy theorist is far too suspicious for that. His last post was from the library a few blocks over."

Reese picked up a napkin that had a few scribbled notes on it. He read it, smirking.

"Finch?"

"Mm."

"Did you know our government is spying on us?"

"Very funny, Mr. Reese. Are you about done over there? I think I may have something."

Reese was in the bathroom now, scanning the medicine cabinet. Many, many prescription bottles.

He scanned the labels, one by one. Not gathering intel.

He found what he was looking for and popped the lid off. Dry swallowed three aspirin.

He evaded the camera on the way out. Back on the sidewalk, he turned a corner and swept the street for a cab.

It happened quickly.

He had let his guard down, wasn't expecting the arm that grabbed him.

His reaction was quick enough, clearly breaking the overcoat's nose in the process. The taller man retaliated by body slamming Reese into a parked car.

He ignored the ripping pain in his side and forced a knee upward, catching the other man's ribs as he struggled to regain control.

Overcoat's blood was spilling from his nose, it made him look fierce, almost feral. He slammed Reese backwards again, the sideview mirror of the vehicle caught him.

Reese cursed the sudden black stars in his vision. Finch's voice echoed something in his ear.

Overcoat took advantage of the lapse, dragged him sideways.

"You're not as tough as they say, Reese."

His voice was deep and he was spinning Reese around, pushing him face first against the car now, yanking his left arm backward.

Reese knew there was pain, but he was outside of it now.

He counted to three- something was around his wrist, his right arm was being yanked backward and he was limp, gently acquiescing to the movements.

After three, he didn't acquiesce.

Reese snapped his neck back, slamming his head into the other man's skull. It gave enough leverage to swing around and catch the overcoat in a choke hold.

The tall man struggled, for a few seconds maybe, then grew still.

Reese let him drop.

His head pounded, his side was growing warm. His vision was a little in and out. It took every effort to squat down next to the unconscious body and search it over. He stayed there, counting the seconds as his breathing slowed.

When he stood, it took a second for the world to focus again.

He looked at the car next to him and broke the driver's side window with his elbow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to John. It may be time to be back to the Library, or back to seedy hotel. But somewhere Finch will find him.


	4. Chapter 4

Pain management was a mini bar on a third floor hotel room with an alley view.

He didn't remember driving there. Checking in.

Not checking in.

Reese sank onto the edge of the bed, unscrewing the cap from a too small bottle of Jack. Shrugged gently out of his coat. The suit jacket.

Both fell without grace to the floor.

He was unscrewing the cap on another bottle when his phone buzzed. He glanced down at the crimson mess of his shirt. Tossed back the second bottle, let it fall like the clothing.

He hadn't been followed. He was fairly confident.

He had only recently put the cellphone battery back in.

The phone buzzed again.

Not confident enough to head back to the Library.

A third buzz. He pulled the phone out.

Finch.

"Harold." He spoke slowly, testing his voice.

"Where the hell have you been?" The words were laced with worry. Annoyance.

"I'm okay."

Silence. _Okay_ was becoming an unacceptable response.

"Mostly okay." Reese looked around for a clock. The alarm clock was blinking on the nightstand. Couldn't trust it. He shifted forward a little in his seat on the bed. Shifted a bit to the side. There was no comfortable position.

More silence. Typing. He could feel Finch's displeasure through the line. Maybe this was it. Too risky, working with a washed up ex-op like him. Too messy.

There were two jackhammers in his head now. They were competing.

Finch said something now but Reese started at the same time.

"I didn't make it to the library. Not our- _your_ library."

Shit. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of his jumbled thoughts. Closing his eyes made his head spin.

Obviously, Reese. Finch was at _his_ library. He tried again. "Fitzgerald's library."

"Forget the number, Mr. Reese." He could hear rustling on the other end. Finch was saying something else but he was having trouble concentrating on the words.

Forget the number.

Right.

Well. It had been a good run.

He lay back.

It didn't help the spinning.

"Mr. Reese?"

He let the phone thud softly to the floor.

* * *

Joss Carter was beginning to grow irritated at the growing number of "man in the suit" cases.

This, for example, was a waste of her time. A standard B&E.

Really, John?

But having requested all so-called cases be fast-tracked to her desk, she didn't have much of a choice but to follow up.

If it weren't for the alleged CIA operative-no issued weapon, no identification-she would have written it off completely.

His broken nose was not doing his face any favors. She noted the faint scar next to his left eye.

She didn't trust him.

"You say he shot at you, he raised his weapon first." She kept the doubt from her voice. She looked the operative in the eye, he stared straight back.

He was good.

"That's what I said, Detective... Carter." Eyeing her badge. Enunciating her name like a threat.

Oh, he was good.

* * *

Finch's lesson of the day was to never wake his sleeping employee.

A light touch and Reese jerked as though electrocuted, grabbing Finch violently, eyes flashing. A glimpse of the monster within. For a second it seemed as though he would put him through the wall.

" _John._ "

Like a flip of a switch. The grip released. Reese collapsed away from him, spent. Gave Finch a groggy stare. Wake up call forgotten.

"Did I let you in?"

Finch gave him a puzzled look, heart still pounding. Wake up call _not_ forgotten.

Reese started to sit up. Glassy-eyed, a black knit cap still on his head.

Finch frowned. Blood. So much blood. "This is mostly okay?"

A twitch of a smile, the sides of Reese's lips tugged upward. Fleeting.

"Mostly." He sank backward again. Job or no job. He trusted Finch implicitly.

"Mr. Reese."

Reese was mentally bracing himself for it. The lecture. The disappointment. The pink slip.

He tried to think of a defense but nausea battled his thought process.

It was for the better. Finch had enough ghosts of his own without additional liability.

Reese jerked.

Hands were gently pulling his shirt from the waistband of his pants. He pushed them away.

"Stop."

A couple of shirt buttons undone, from the bottom up. Finch's hands were trembling, slightly, but steady enough to swat away another attempt to interfere.

" _Stop_ , Finch."

Blue eyes fluttered open. Annoyed. Pushing away a hand, Finch caught his wrist.

"Honey?"

Reese frowned. "What?"

Finch was cautiously peeling away the edge of a sticky bandage with an odd look on his face.

Oh. Reese grimaced. Honey.

"Natural antiseptic," he mumbled, closing his eyes. He pulled his wrist back. "Leave it."

"You put honey on a..." Finch's voice conveyed bewilderment.

" _Leave_ it," Reese repeated.

Finch left it. Only because he wasn't certain he could stomach what would be under it.

A moment later, there were fingers on his forehead. Pushing the hat, damp hair aside, gentle pressure on his skin.

Reese knocked that touch away too. "Finch. _Stop_."

A short silence.

"I think you have a fever."

"I know I have a fever." Petulant.

A hard look. "While your medical expertise would no doubt impress me, Mr. Reese-"

Reese groaned, forcing himself upright again. A hundred tiny needles ripped through his side. Just, get it over with. " _Finch_ -"

"You are not ... _out in the field_ ," Finch continued. He eyed the unsteady figure. "You _have_ options."

Reese concentrated on his words. He did not like how he was feeling. Did not like that Finch was there to see it.

"I'll take today off."

"The day is almost over, Mr. Reese." Dryly. Patience was beginning to escape Finch's voice.

"Just need sleep."

They stared at each other.

Reese broke eye contact first. He didn't care to win this time. Sank back again, resisting a groan.

"John-"

"No talking." Mumbled. "Sleep."

Though keeping a calm facade, Finch's mind was racing. It bothered him, that Reese would likely tell him he had survived worse. Alone. He had just seen a map of scars only three buttons up.

And the blood.

It seemed like a lot of blood. Soaked though bandages, sticky with honey.

Honey?

He glanced at the still figure on the bed. Chest rising and falling. Deep, slow breaths. The way one is trained to get through pain.

There were contingency plans. He had contacts. Favors owed. Bribes if necessary.

Could dig them up if needed.

Finch pulled a laptop out of the shoulder bag he had dropped on the scratched desk. Started to boot up.

"Finch." Softly. The typing from the corner was soothing. Familiar.

"Mm."

"If you need to find someone else…"

The typing paused. Finch glanced at him. Reese's eyes were closed, but they opened again at the lack of response. Stared at the ceiling.

Waiting.

Finch raced through the million and one things he could say.

And said none of them.

"No talking, Mr. Reese." Words repeated instead. The typing resumed. "Sleep."


	5. Chapter 5

_2007_

Moscow in January was a fur-wearer's dream.

Bitter and cold, unforgiving but beautiful all the same.

His back to Lenin's Mausoleum, staring south to St. Basil's. Reese's eyes trailed the cathedral's cartoon-like outline. He looked to Kara. "Warm enough?" In Russian.

"Mm."

Kara's lined hood had seemed dramatic at first but in truth she blended with the crowd.

His own knit cap was less of a statement. Perhaps less warm.

"You?" Kara touched the uncharacteristic scruff on his cheek with her wool lined fingers. Gently.

He let her.

She leaned in closer.

"Kara." Murmured.

She gave her own look to his expression. "John."

He didn't respond.

Her fingers trailed down to his chest. "Relax."

She took certain liberties during their covers.

He let her.

Eyes back to the square.

"Three o'clock," he said softly. Her hands were teasing him now and he took advantage, swinging her around, her back thudding against the gate. Forcefully enough.

She smiled.

"Three o'clock," he repeated. It was starting to snow.

A second's pause. Her eyes over his shoulder. "Yes."

"And the mark?"

Another pause. Barely. "Got him."

He let go of her arms, tracing his fingers against the syringe in his pocket.

* * *

Buzzing.

Finch glanced at the still prone figure on the bed. Waited. The heavy vibration continued.

No reaction.

He left his seat. Sorted through the discarded coat and suit jacket on the floor. Felt in one of the pockets. A cell, not vibrating.

"Not your phone, Mr. Reese..." Murmured. Not the source of the call. Finch pulled the battery from its casing.

The other pocket. A Glock. Handcuffs. Zip ties.

He shot the sleeping figure a look.

A identification card was next. Finch examined the laminated profile. CIA. One Derek Platt.

Interesting.

The buzzing. Reese's phone was loose on the floor, clear of the clothing. No need to see what the other garment held. Thankfully.

Finch studied the number on the screen. Hesitated.

"Detective," he guessed, keeping his voice low. Draping the clothes over a chair, sitting back at the keyboard.

Platt, Derek. He opened a search window.

There was a pause on the line, Carter obviously not expecting his voice. "John okay?"

"He's sleeping." A cautiousness in his tone.

"Sleeping or passed out?"

Finch glanced again at the still figure. "How _do_ you tell, Detective?"

A silence. Her voice equally low, a tinge of exasperation. "I swear. Do you two ever take a day off?"

"I'll have to revisit John's employee benefits."

A sigh. Forfeiting. "Got this operative here at a scene. Seems our mutual friend might have set him off. Platt, a -"

"Derek Platt?"

A pause. "How do you- never mind. Yes."

"I see."

She waited. No information followed. Another breath of air. A curse, under her breath. "That's it? You're not gonna share anything else?"

"If I knew more, Detective, I'd be happy to share."

A second, weighing the truth of that. "Look. Tell John... Tell him to be careful, okay? This guy doesn't play by the rulebook."

"I didn't realize such a rulebook existed."

"I'll give you that. But this is different. It seems personal." The sound of voices in the background, her voice lowered again. "There's gonna be a whole task force set up on this. You may want to lay low. Hang up Batman's cape for a little while."

"Duly noted, Detective." Finch looked at the ID card again. Dark eyes stared back. "Thank you."

She waited a second. "Seriously though." Her voice was gentler now, cautious. "He is okay?"

Finch looked again to the figure on the bed, unaccustomed to its stillness. "He will be."

"Good." A huff. "I've got some choice words for him when he's awake."

"You and me both."


	6. Chapter 6

_2007_

The mark was from the Agency.

The realization, the hissed words from the other operative.

At first Reese hesitated.

"Do you even know what side you're on?"

But then he did his job.

Kara didn't hesitate. She killed the partner, another woman, discretely.

Left her sitting on a bench in Alexander Garden, as though enjoying frozen views of the Kremlin.

They had the item they had come for and he pushed her along quickly after. Away from the gardens, the square. Their footsteps echoing down the metro stairs.

Marbled walls and stained glass. Cathedral ceilings.

Moscow's underground railway was a museum in itself.

They took the first escalator down, no set compass.

He let out a long breath.

Kara watched him examining the walls, the mosaics. A small smile. "If you're good tonight, we can sightsee in the morning."

Reese walked the rest of the moving stairs, not bothering to check if she kept up. Boarded the first open train.

He held the bar above his head as the car started moving. She sank to the seat beneath him, touched his gloved hand.

"John."

He ignored her.

"Sit down." In Russian.

"Kara."

" _Sit_ _down_."

The doors opened at the next stop, commuters filed in. Crowded the space.

He sank into the empty vinyl seat next to her.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. Just another young couple to any observer.

The rumbling of the metro.

"You ever wonder what side we're on?"

"Our side." She shifted her head, just slightly, shutting her eyes. "I told you, John."

"Mm."

Kara's voice was barely above a whisper. "Walking in the dark."

* * *

Reese started awake.

A dull humming from the mini fridge in the corner, an odd cast of light across the otherwise dark room.

He rolled to his good side, lay there a minute. Deep breathing.

Sitting up. Another minute.

Got to his feet, in stages, a hand against the wall to steady.

He closed his eyes for a second. Get it together, Reese.

There was some time lost on his internal clock, the blinking digital display on the nightstand no help in orientation.

A dizzy spell threatened. He rubbed a hand down his face. Deep breathing.

He stared for a minute at the besuited figure asleep at the desk in the corner, a laptop the source of the room's glow.

One, two tiny bottles from the minibar. He set them on the desk as he attempted to free the laptop from the edge of his sleeping employer's arm.

Finch, never a heavy sleeper, started awake himself. He squinted at Reese, a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

Reese pulled his hand back. Slowly. "Morning," he offered.

Finch sat upright, watched him. Rubbed the side of his face, eyes still narrowed. His back argued the sleeping position his own body had succumbed to. "What time is it?"

A one shouldered shrug.

Finch still studying him. He said nothing, Reese saw through it.

"I'm okay." Softly. One hand on the table to steady himself.

"Yes, I can see that." Finch felt in his pocket, procured a pill bottle. "Take two."

Reese took the bottle. Antibiotics. He didn't question their appearance, popped the cap.

Finch frowned as the tiny white pills were chased by the contents of a liquor bottle. He raised an eyebrow, pushed a water bottle forward instead.

Reese took a sip of the water, followed it by a swig of the alcohol.

A compromise. Raised eyebrows to the disapproving look.

Finch just shook his head.

His gaze shifted. Reese's eyes had fixed on the laminate ID card on the desk.

Finch noted the quick change in expression. Reese's glance to the card, the laptop.

"It seems Platt would like your head."

Reese picked the card up between two fingers. The dark eyes stared back at him. "That's fair."

Finch watched his face, the light from the screen reflecting off of it.

"I did kill his partner."

Unexpected. The words were flat. Finch turned in the stiff chair. Waited, but nothing more was offered.

Reese tossed the card back on the desk. Flicked his eyes to Finch as though expecting some type of judgment.

None came.

"You should sit, Mr. Reese."

He wasn't listening. He reached again to the laptop. "And the number?"

Finch pushed the computer toward the back of the desk. Thought about lying. Fabricating a plot line where Fitzgerald would wind up safe and sound, unscathed from any threat.

"Finch."

Slowly. "After some deliberation, I believe we should sit this one out."

"Sit this one out?"

"Yes. At this point, literally, Mr. Reese." He gave a gentle but firm push to the leg beside him. "Please sit."

"We can't just choose-"

"We _can_." Finch closed the laptop, eyed him. "I have."

"No." A stubborn shake of the head. "It's not your decision, Finch."

" _No_?" A raised eyebrow. "It's not? Need I remind you, I'm your _boss_ , Mr. Reese." The tone was sharp.

"Right." Reese moved away, but found his arm caught. He shook off Finch's grip. "Let go."

Finch squeezed. "Listen. Platt wants you dead, but he also wants Fitzgerald."

Reese paused. One of the conspiracy theories was true. One of the government theories.

"It's the perfect storm. I can't make you-"

Reese freed his arm. "You're not _making_ me."

"You're right. I'm telling you not to."

"You hired me for this." Reese's cheeks were flushed, either fever or agitation. " _Boss_."

Finch gave him a look. "John."

Reese moved away. "If we do nothing, Fitzgerald's dead."

Better he than Reese. "You need a doctor."

Reese sat finally, at the edge of the bed. Standing for that amount of time was not helping his case. He looked at Finch. "We finish this and I'll see a doctor."

"Your well-being is not a bargaining chip."

"It's all I have."

"Exactly."

Reese stared back.

It was not a deal Finch was willing to make.

"At least your Machine trusts me."

Finch thought he misheard. "What?"

Reese lay back, his feet still on the floor. Spoke to the ceiling. "It didn't give you my number yet, right?"

Finch was quiet.

"So at least it trusts me."

A pause. "This isn't about trust, Mr. Reese."

It was though. It was about not losing the one person he trusted the most.

"You should go," Reese said finally.

And against his better judgment, he went.


	7. Chapter 7

_2007_

In the earliest hours of the morning, a city slept shrouded in frost and snow.

Inside, ice cubes clinked.

"You're still thinking about it."

Reese glanced at her, said nothing. A slow sip from his glass.

Kara sank beside him, too close. Done with her cat-like pacing.

"My old partner was like you."

Gentle fingers raked through his cropped hair and Reese leaned his head into it, almost involuntarily.

"He was soft," she continued. "Got him killed."

Another sip from the glass. He swallowed, said nothing. Leaned his head back into the touch.

Earlier that evening he had shot a US counterintelligence officer in the back of the head. A traitor.

Alleged traitor.

Black hood. Execution style.

He might have been thinking about it.

"Stop thinking about it."

He turned his head. "You don't know what I'm thinking."

"Oh, John." Amused. A patient smile. She tugged the hair at the nape of his neck. "I know exactly what you're thinking."

"Kara." A hint of complaint.

"You're soft," she repeated, playfully now. Her hands moved lower. And lower. A smile. "But not too soft."

Reese closed his eyes.

* * *

"God _dam_ mit."

"Good morning to you too, Lionel."

In the rearview mirror, Fusco eyed the lanky figure draped across the backseat of his car. "You're gonna give me a fucking heart attack."

" _That_ 's gonna give you a fucking heart attack." Reese nodded to the chili cheese dog that accompanied the detective's coffee. "It's nine in the morning."

"Your point?" Fusco took an oversized bite and glared at him, starting the engine. Flipped the defrost on, the heat on high. "And whatever it is, the answer's no."

Reese gave him a tired look.

"You shouldn't even be _near_ here." Fusco cursed under his breath as a clump of the generous hot dog toppings abandoned the bun for his lap. He reached for the glove compartment with his free hand. "There's a bounty on your head."

"So I hear."

"Well then don't be stupid." Fusco found napkins, slapped the compartment shut. Spoke through another bite. "The whole precinct's buzzing. I think Carter's onto you."

"Touched by your concern."

"Bullshit." Another bite, a shake of the head. "Any reason I shouldn't be a hero?" He met Reese's eye in the mirror as he hit the automatic door lock.

A heavy clink.

Reese sat up slightly. "Lionel."

Fusco enjoyed the look, every second. But then he was looking down a lazily held but well-aimed barrel of a Sig and realizing there could very well be a grenade launcher in his backseat. His eyes narrowed.

The doors unlocked.

The pistol lowered.

"I need a favor," Reese said, sinking back down. Stiffly. "Records on a Chris Fitzgerald."

Silence. The wipers were flipped on, swiping last night's snow from the windshield.

"Fusco."

"What. What about him? He's a nutball."

Reese eyed him. "You know him?"

"Had him in booking last night. Your old friend claimed jurisdiction. Something about a threat to national security."

Reese sat up all the way. "Platt?"

"Nice guy." Sarcasm. Fusco finished the dog, licked a finger. He had seen the wince. "You bleeding on my backseat?"

"Where's Fitzgerald now?"

"Loony tunes? I told you, not my circus."

Reese breathed out slowly. He knew how Platt could operate. Chances were, there wouldn't be any national security investigation. "Find out."

Fusco gave him a look.

"Find out, please."

Another look.

Reese's voice was calm. "I did say please, Detective."

Fusco scoffed. "Does that work with Glasses?"

No answer.

"He was looking for you, by the way."

"He found me."

"And?"

Reese was silent.

"Yeah, I thought so. Apparently you don't listen so well." Fusco gave him another look. "Glad it's not just me."

Tiredly. "Just find out where Fitzgerald is. And Platt."

"Like I said, out of my jurisdiction. I gotta get moving here. Coming or going?" Fusco eyed him. "I suggest going."

"Rumor has it a bust happened Monday. Sloppy. Something about two shots fired? A service weapon disappeared."

"So?"

"Maybe it didn't disappear so well."

Son of bitch.

"Just saying, Detective. This doesn't have to be complicated."

"Doesn't have to be complicated," Fusco repeated. He cursed under his breath. Things had been complicated since the first day they had exchanged words. The sigh he let out sounded like defeat itself. "Last I heard, they were taking him to the 9th."

"Thanks, Lionel." Reese was unfolding himself from the backseat. Carefully. "I'll be in touch."

"Lay low, tough guy. I don't wanna hear some rookie made officer over you."

A corner of Reese's mouth tugged up. The city was grey and dingy and fat drops of freezing rain were starting to hit the windshield.

"I wouldn't worry about me."

* * *

Fusco was a fucking fortune teller.

Wrenched around, caught off-guard, Reese's cheek hit the brick on the side of the building. A groan. Arms yanked behind him, one at a time and his knees almost buckled because God _damn_ , he hurt.

"Something funny?"

He had laughed. Because Goddammit, Fusco. It hadn't even been an hour.

It was an undercover rookie too, he could tell, but he let himself go pliable, limp even. No energy to fight this time.

Shit.

He let out a breath of air he hadn't meant to hold. Metal pinched his wrists, cuffs tight on purpose. Freezing rain dripped down his neck.

He closed his eyes, forehead against the brick. Tried a lifeline.

"Finch?"


	8. Chapter 8

"Reese."

He raised his head, blinked at the figure in front of him.

"You still go by Reese, yes?"

Reese tilted his head. Said nothing. The room was empty aside from the table, the two chairs. A small security camera stared at him.

Platt smiled thinly as he pulled up a chair across the table, its legs scraping the floor. He sat, elbows on the table, steepled fingers under his chin. "I take that as a yes."

Reese stared back at him, stoic. His hands felt clammy, his feet slightly numb. He shifted his seat in the metal chair, arms restrained behind him. A clock on the wall ticked. It echoed in his head.

"I had hoped we would meet again. Fate." The last word was spoken in Russian.

Fate indeed.

Reese closed his eyes. He still saw Platt's face in his mind. Older, more lined. Hair flecked with grey. Same eyes.

"Reese."

Eyes opened. A spell of nausea swirled in his stomach.

Platt smiled.

"You've made quite a name for yourself in New York. The man in the suit."

Reese breathed in. Slowly, deeply. He could vomit.

"Who do you work for now?"

He closed his eyes again.

" _Reese_."

A scraping of the chair. He hissed as fingers pushed into his jacket, just the right spot, burning. He opened his eyes.

"We both know, if there's one thing you're good at, it's taking orders. You're not working alone."

Reese stared into black eyes.

"We traced your phone."

It was a bluff, he knew that, knew the line was not traceable. But those eyes. The eyes gave no hint of bluff.

"I'll kill you," he said finally, voice gravelly.

The corner of Platt's mouth twitched.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you."

Reese studied his face. The scar next to his eye, the purple bruising at the bridge of his nose.

There was a time when they worked for the same employer. A time when the lines of right and wrong had blurred into a haze of grey.

The military, the bureau. DIA, NSA, CIA, FBI. Protect the country in the eyes of one, become a traitor in the books of another.

"The others thought you were dead. I wasn't so sure." Platt held his gaze, unblinking. Shook his head. "I've been waiting for this... Camera's off, by the way," he said, noticing Reese's eyes flicker toward the corner. He leaned forward again, poking him in the same spot, smiling at the groan. "The NYPD… they have no idea. This man in the suit gig. They just think you're just some reckless vigilante."

Reese gritted his teeth.

Almost gently. "We know better, don't we, John?"

* * *

"Lemme guess. You need a favor."

"My apologies for skipping the pleasantries, Detective. But yes."

Carter frowned, pausing in her steps. Finch's tone was harried, rushed.

"I see you're at the 9th," he continued, not waiting for a response.

What the hell? She involuntarily glanced over her shoulder.

"Cleaning up that FItzgerald case," she murmured, stepping out of earshot from a few desks. She balanced the phone between her ear and shoulder, flipping open the case file in question. "Look, if you and John are planning-"

"Fitzgerald's at the 9th too." A realization. Finch said the words slowly, as if he just connected something.

"What?" If the favor wasn't regarding Fitzgerald at the precinct, then-

Shit. Carter eyed Platt as he exited one of the interrogation rooms across the span. He looked like the cat and the canary.

"So he's awake then." She closed the folder, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "Look-"

"Interrogation room three. Platt just received a call from his daughter's school regarding a bomb threat made moments ago-"

" _What_."

" _Threat_ , detective, not an actual bomb." Typing. Quickly. "I'm looping the video feeds at the precinct. Will three minutes be sufficient?"

Three minutes.

"Detective?"

Resignedly. "And the rest of the bullpen?"

"On it." He hesitated. 

She sighed. "You're welcome."

Finch let out a breath.

"I'm in the lot across the street."

* * *

_2007_

In the dark there were times the hunters became the hunted.

Tuesday. An abandoned assignment, the violent interruption to what had become an almost comfortable routine. Other operatives off the grid.

Just like them.

Reese checked the rearview. Black SUV. Tinted windows.

Just like theirs.

Reese sped up, took a quick left and then a right. The SUV was two for two. He pushed the pedal down, eyeing the road up ahead. Traffic. Looked to his left.

A traffic light, about to change. A tractor-trailer, about to make a wide turn.

He glanced at Kara. She was quiet. She was bleeding.

And it bothered him. That it bothered him.

He cut the wheel, making the left. Slammed the gas. Seconds slowed in his head. He eyed the rear view mirror. The SUV was bearing down.

He gauged the light, the truck, the other cars.

A car zipped through the intersection when the light turned yellow. Three, two, _red_. Reese laid the gas flat to the floor, cutting his wheel hard to the left.

His car shot through the intersection in front of the truck, blocking it and causing its driver to slam on his brakes. The semi cut his wheel to the right. A horn blared.

The trailer slid sideways. The light turned red.

Traffic started up but could go nowhere. The tractor-trailer blocked the entire intersection. More horns joined in the chorus.

Reese took a right at the next block, then a left.

He glanced at Kara. Touched her arm as he slowed to an average speed.

She turned her head, eyes meeting his.

"Call Snow."

* * *

" _John_."

The one word. Layered with annoyance, disapproval. Sympathy. Sadness. To start.

The door shut behind her. He raised his eyes.

"Joss." At the sight of her, a lopsided smile.

The look Carter gave him in return was not a smile. Her eyes took in his appearance, worried. Dark circles under his eyes, a bruise only beginning to shadow his cheekbone. She came around the side of the table.

"John..." She lifted the edge of his jacket, shook her head. Met his eye.

"I'm okay," he said. "Where's Fitzgerald?"

"We don't have a lot of time-"

"Neither does he." Reese watched her dig for something. Held up his already freed arms, a cuff still dangling off of one wrist. She stared at him, incredulous. It transformed to annoyance.

"John."

He gave her an apologetic look. Scooted forward in his seat, prepping himself to stand. "Left or right?" The interrogation rooms were in a line. His, the middle.

"No, John."

"Left. Or right?" He stood after the first word, tried to smile at her to show his ableness. From the look on her face, it didn't translate.

"What is it about you, John? That makes you want to save everybody else's life but your own?"

An alarm started ringing in the bullpen. She heard the sound of the sprinklers activating.

Finch.

Reese's world was spinning. He steadied himself on his feet, thanked someone out there for rookie cops and their abilities to frisk. Ran his fingers along the outline of the smoke grenade that had fallen undetected.

"I'm sorry, Joss," he said softly.

And he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit a little plot-block of the mind. Apologies if it's dragging!


	9. Chapter 9

An explosion. Yelling, distant screams. The faint but shrill ringing of alarms.

On the street, the rain turning to snow again in thick heavy flakes. Poor visibility. People crouching instinctively behind parked cars at the boom of detonation. Then fleeing. Running, shoving.

Finch jerked at the noise himself, staring across the street. Explosions were not his thing. He did not do _well_ with that sound.

It was likely only a minute, maybe ninety seconds. Each counted by his heart's beat, heavy in his chest. Then a thud, something falling against the side of the car. He twisted around.

The passenger door opened. "Mr. Reese." Relieved. Finch caught his eye, then a trollish figure was pushed into view and he frowned.

The face from the photo. Thick glasses enlarged nervous, watery eyes.

"John?"

"Finch, Fitzgerald." Something muttered. "You'll like him, Finch." Reese was pushing the unwilling body into the passenger seat. "He's not a fan of firearms. _C'mon_ , Chris."

"Or grenades."

"Grenades, Mr. Reese?"

A final shove. A protest. The passenger door slammed shut.

Fitzgerald spun to Finch, eyes darting around. "We're being watched-"

The backdoor opened. Reese was getting into the backseat.

"-smartphones, laptops-"

No, falling into the backseat.

"Mr. Reese?"

" _Drive_ , Finch."

"-home surveillance systems-"

Reese lay down. Closed his eyes.

Fitzgerald looked to Finch.

"Do you _trust_ him?"

Finch clenched his teeth. Shifted the car into drive.

* * *

He woke groggily, under the scrutiny of magnified eyes.

A gnomish, balding man with glasses.

"You're a Russian _spy_ , aren't you?"

Reese blinked at him. "What?"

Finch's voice. "Mr. Fitzgerald."

The words came quickly, urgently. "Russia's space program is testing nuclear weapons." Fitzgerald's eyes darted between them. "There have been seven major earthquakes in the last two years, each time a Russian shuttle in orbit-"

"Mr. Fitzgerald, _please_." Finch's tone was edged, his lips pressed tight.

It was clearly not the first time the theory had been discussed.

Fitzgerald was more fervored now. He swung his words toward Finch. "Take a look at the dates-"

Reese sat up, grimacing. Swung his feet to the floor. His torso was tightly wrapped, the bandages his only attire above the waist. He frowned.

How long had he been out?

"-the locations-"

Finch glanced at him. "Sit, Mr. Reese."

"The so-called fault lines. Do you even know where the President is right now?"

"I understand your _frustrations_ , Mr. Fitzgerald." Finch's tone was measured. "John."

"Exactly!" Fitzgerald threw his hands up. Pacing away, then back. "They're scaling up for an assassination attempt!"

"I see," Finch said. "John, will you _please_ sit down?"

"-first the President-"

" _John_."

"-then the Pope-"

"Sit _down_." The look on Finch's face clearly read _or else_.

A glare. But Reese sat.

"-fear-mongering-"

" _Indeed_ ," Finch interrupted. Unenthused.

"Bastards," Reese offered, his voice hoarse.

Both the men stared at him, one distrustful. The other unimpressed.

Finch gave him a look. The one that meant _be quiet_.

His own words were spoken carefully. "I recognize your concerns, Mr. Fitzgerald. And although your theories are fascinating-"

" _Theories_?"

"They are certainly valid arguments," Finch allowed. "But I believe we have more pressing matters at hand."

"Like whether John-"

"John is _not_ a Russian spy, Mr. Fitzgerald." Finch's voice had a _we've been through this already_ tone.

Fitzgerald sniffed, but stayed silent. Still, he eyed Reese warily.

Finch let out a tired breath. Time to compromise. "I thought you wished to update your blog? I set the laptop in the dining room for your personal use."

Personal use, without a true internet connection.

Fitzgerald nodded, a guarded smile. Another leery look to Reese before he vacated the room.

Finch stared at the doorway, an annoyed breath.

Reese pressed his bare feet into the hardwood floor but stayed seated as he took in the safe house. He hadn't been there before, and it bothered him, not knowing the layout of the apartment. Not knowing the exits, the neighborhood. Where his shoes were.

He didn't hurt either, and that bothered him too. Less pain, less reaction time. He felt tired, dull. Confused.

Finch was watching him now.

Reese rubbed a hand down his face, looked down at his tightly wrapped torso. Back to Finch.

"I called in a small favor," Finch said, reading the look.

A muffled exclamation from the other room. They both looked to the doorway, then back to each other.

"Where're my shoes?"

Finch looked almost amused at that, which bothered him more.

"You shouldn't give me drugs." Reese's voice was firm but also lined with a sadness. He had one job, and he couldn't do it drugged up. He shifted forward, saw the warning look. "Finch."

"You'll hurt again soon enough, Mr. Reese," Finch said, a little sharp. He met the blue eyes, unaccustomed to how unmasked they were.

Silence.

"Finch."

"Yes."

Hesitation.

Reese lay back, giving in to confused and tired. If you couldn't think properly, you shouldn't speak. He closed his eyes. Finally, "Sorry if I screwed up."

The words were soft, drowsy as though spoken half through sleep. Reese's breathing already the even cadence of slumber.

Finch watched him a moment. The peaceful expression on the younger man's face was a sharp contrast to the fitful rest from earlier. The agitated mutters, few but Russian in dialect. Leading Fitzgerald to believe he was some type of Soviet spy.

Finch shook his head. Draped a blanket over the lanky body. Paused a second, as though to give a reassuring pat, but held back.

"You didn't screw up," he said softly.

Another muffled outburst from the other room.

"Harold!"

For all of Fitzgerald's distrust of Reese, he had happily adopted Finch as a co-conspirator.

Finch took a deep breath, bracing himself.

For now, back to the number.


	10. Chapter 10

**_2007_ **

"We were compromised."

"Don't ask questions, John."

While Kara bled upstairs, hopped up on Ketamine, Reese met Snow for a drink. It was an order.

The debrief, vague. Necessary, in a public place. Snow had planned for that.

No praise, but Snow rarely praised. No obvious dressing down.

Snow had greeted with a slap to the back, a squeeze to the shoulder. A smile even. But those gestures were for show, for the other bar patrons, not for Reese.

It was nothing to read.

"Who died, John?" The accompanying look: _Act like a normal person._

What did normal act like?

Snow leaned closer. "She's fine."

Still, he felt a little lost. He pushed that back, between the narrow rails.

Whiskey, neat. His gaze to the television above the bar, the convenient mirrored wall behind the liquor bottles and mixers. A view of both exits. His handler.

Snow didn't say it, but he had known about the other operatives.

Reese took a swallow from his glass. Hid a wince. It was shitty alcohol.

Snow watched him, knew he wasn't satisfied. "C'mon. I like you, John." _Don't make me have to kill you._

Another swallow.

He had killed 13 men while in Russia. One woman.

There was a certain comfort in taking orders.

Silence followed. They sat, relaxed postures. Two men in suits, grabbing a drink after a long day at the office.

Reese watched Snow in the mirror, noted the ever present ear com, still in. His ringless hands. The scar behind his right knuckle.

Off the job, he didn't know the man. His name. Any family. Where he was from.

He raised his eyes back to the television. News, politics, sports highlights. A stock ticker steadily scrolling.

He wondered what day of the week it was.

Mid-week, judging by the meager crowd. Though truth be told it was a shitty bar.

"This is a shitty bar, Mark."

A chuckle. "I know."

American football updates. The Super Bowl was coming up, some weekend. He didn't care for either team. He didn't really care.

"Seahawks, right?"

Reese glanced at him.

"Washington state?"

He held the gaze.

Snow smirked and Reese wasn't sure why he bothered.

Later, another round. Two plane tickets, stamped for the morning, slipped his way.

Snow leaned into Reese's space, sliding two little shot glasses of amber with him. Pushed one against Reese's hand, his palm flat on the bar.

"You want to know the one thing they all had in common?" His face so close, their foreheads almost touching.

Reese closed his fingers around the glass.

"A question." Snow said it softly. He put back his shot, set the empty glass down on the bartop. Slapped Reese on the shoulder as he stood. Done for the night.

Reese didn't blink.

Snow smiled: _Glad we had this talk_. "Get her to the airport tomorrow."

* * *

Murmurs from the other room.

Squirrelly words and comments. Finch's gentle cadence.

Dualing typing.

A laugh.

Reese sat up in bed, blinking in the darkness.

Pain was making its way back, his thoughts still groggy. He shifted to the edge of the bed, waited a minute, scrubbed his face with his hands.

Standing. He could do standing.

He prowled the apartment first. Gauging its layout, its doorways and fire escapes. The street signs in the window's view.

Finch had at least heeded one piece of advice- the safe house was armed.

Used the bathroom, stared at blank eyes in the mirror. Ran a hand through untamable bedhead.

He stopped back in the room he'd started in, pulled on a clean t-shirt. Sat one minute. Counted it.

Dizziness passed, he stood again. Hung in the doorway and watched.

Two figures posed over laptops, half-empty Chinese cartons spread in disarray around them.

Cozy.

Down to a vest, Finch was typing steadily, coding something, building something. His hair jutting out in more directions than usual. Not really listening to Fitzgerald, but feeding him just the right amount of nods and affirmative murmurs to give a semblance of conversation.

Across the table, Fitzgerald was in bliss for an audience that was more than virtual. He spoke feverishly, gesticulating wildly when he wasn't typing.

Verifiable observations. Explanations, some assumptions about it.

_It_.

About the Machine.

Reese frowned.

It was Finch who finally saw him there, caught his eye. Raised his eyebrows in question.

"Mr. Reese."

"Finch?" He gave his employer a disapproving frown.

The comfortable expression on Fitzgerald's pudgy face had been replaced, first annoyance at the interruption. Then general distrust at the figure in the doorway, the man who had rescued him but had been detained himself. Who spoke Russian in his sleep and carried weapons, plural. A glance to Finch. His new confidante.

Reese observed the exchange silently, narrowing his eyes.

Joined them. Sat closer to Finch, positioning himself directly across from the skittish man he had saved. He drummed his fingers on the table absently, looked at Finch's screen. A series of windows and boxes of code, the creation of a new identity.

Finch pushed one of the cartons of food into the restless fingers. The drumming stopped.

Reese kept his eyes on their number, but took the food. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, but his stomach argued against it. He picked at it, watching Fitzgerald. Those crazy, distrustful eyes.

The typing resumed. First Finch. Then Fitzgerald.

The conversation picked up again, something about weather patterns and weaponry testing, America at fault this time. Disappearing ballots, trackers in library books.

Food abandoned, Reese took apart and cleaned every gun he found. Twice. At the table, eyes trained on Fitzgerald as the man "blogged".

Or, whatever you called busily typing on an non-networked laptop and swapping conspiracy theories with Finch.

Reese took a small amount of satisfaction from Fitzgerald's discomfort.

His third time through, Finch cleared his throat.

"Mr. Reese."

Reese looked up. Washed his face with a dumb, well-meaning expression.

Finch locked eyes, gave a small shake of the head.

Fitzgerald was still watching him with unease. A sour frown.

Reese stared back at him. Slapped the cartridge back into the Glock with extra force. Fitzgerald flinched. Reese hid a smile, rubbing his hand across his mouth.

Finch's chair scraped backward. " _John_." A beat. "A word?"

In the privacy of the other room, Finch shut the door. Reese opened it again, just slightly, a sliver to watch Fitzgerald through. Stepped into the best vantage point, unconsciously pushing Finch back.

Softly. "I don't like him, Finch."

"I couldn't tell," Finch said dryly. "Mr. Reese, he's harmless."

"Knowledge isn't harmless, Finch."

"He has no knowledge. A theory perhaps."

"And its truth?" Reese glanced at him. "Platt wants him for that truth." _And you, if he knew._

"Rest assured. It's merely speculation. He's guessed some things-"

"Finch. Guys like him, they don't keep their mouths shut. He learns anything, he'll sell you out. We need to get him out of here." _Away from you._

"In process, Mr. Reese."

There was noisy movement in the other room and Reese pulled Finch back, opening the door, stepping into the light. A hand instinctively reached to his waist, but there was no gun there.

Fitzgerald was getting a glass of water. He paused, seeing Reese's eyes.

_I'm watching you._

Finch pushed him back. A hand on his chest, gentle enough, but the message clear. Heat radiated through the thin t-shirt. He shut the door.

"In process without you, Mr. Reese. I'm afraid your presence complicates things in this matter."

"Finch-"

"One man is after him. At least two precincts are looking for you." He saw the stubborn expression on Reese's face. Sharper, a look of reproach: "Need we have a discussion about your actions this morning?"

" _Finch_."

"Later then?"

Reese ignored him, opened the door a crack again.

Finch lowered his voice. "In truth, his paranoia makes this easy- he _wants_ out of the city, away from the world he's conspired to be after him. I've arranged a flight, a new identity."

"When is the flight?"

"We'll leave within the hour."

Reese knew the _we_ excluded him. "Call Carter. Have her escort you."

Finch raised his eyebrows. "I fear we are not in Detective Carter's good graces at the moment."

There was no blame in the statement, but Reese felt a stir of guilt all the same.

Finch continued. "Fortunately, a certain task force is distracted. We should be fine, barring you stay here."

"Finch." It was half growl, half whine.

"This isn't punishment, Mr. Reese. You're hurt. You've done enough."

Reese leaned into the doorframe. Oh Finch. If only you knew.

"Moreover, I'm not certain Mr. Fitzgerald will travel with you." Finch give him a look. "You can be… intimidating."

The corner of Reese's mouth twitched. "Do I intimidate you, Finch?"

An even stare. No, he didn't intimidate him. Reese looked back through the slit in the door, Fitzgerald was talking to himself now.

Idiot.

Finch was saying something. Something about resting. Staying at the safe house. Handling any coordination efforts from behind a laptop.

An empty purpose.

"Okay?"

No response.

"John."

"Mm?" Reese turned to look at him.

"You heard me?"

From the other room: "Harold!"

Finch waited, watching him.

"Yes," Reese said finally.

Yes, he had heard him.


	11. Chapter 11

"See? Right there. Watching us- watching us- watching us-" Pointing to one after another, camera atop pole, atop building. A declaration for each. Fitzgerald threw Finch a knowing look. "Watching us."

Finch kept his eyes on the road.

"Watching us-"

"Mr. Fitzgerald."

"That's how they found me. Facial recognition software. Nowhere is safe."

"It's alright. You'll be safe now."

"Maybe," Fitzgerald allowed, sounding unconvinced. "But this isn't the first time."

"The first time?"

"The first time they found me." A wary look to his new friend, as though afraid to share too much. A cough, redirecting. "The Bluetooth on your phone can be hijacked. If you do carry one-I don't-I would suggest turning the Bluetooth off."

"I see."

"I would suggest not carrying one at all-"

Finch adjusted the heat in the car, the warm air blowing through the vents at just the right volume to drown out the verbosity of his traveling companion.

"-location services, the GPS trackers-"

Almost.

"-an app to find my phone, I mean really?"

Traffic was slowing ahead.

"Mr. Fitzgerald, were there any prescriptions you may have needed before traveling?" Finch could feel the heavy stare directed at him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Never mind."

"Another, there. On the overpass. You think it's a traffic cam but it's not."

Traffic stood still for a second. Finch closed his eyes.

"I wrote, I called. I called reporters, the NSA… no one listened. I started taking them down."

Finch opened his eyes. "Pardon?"

Another cough. Traffic was moving again.

"Started taking what down?"

No response. Fitzgerald played with the vents in front of him, redirecting the air.

"Mr. Fitzgerald."

"The cameras." Widening eyes. "They were always watching."

"You removed the cameras?"

"Yes. Yes, I did. We did." Fitzgerald wiped his palms on his lap. Agitated. "We did. But they returned. One by one. We had to do more."

Finch frowned. Fitzgerald wasn't the only person out there with suspicions. He had questioned why, at first, the Machine had pulled his number. Why any government agency would bother with such a small irrelevant pawn. Surely he was no risk to anyone.

Finch glanced over, the sudden silence a strange hum. Fitzgerald was staring at him, no longer looking for electronic surveillance. Oh dear. Finch looked back to the road.

"You didn't like that," Fitzgerald observed. Something had changed in his expression, his voice. "When I said I took them."

Finch still didn't answer.

"You didn't like it, Harold."

"Merely interested," Finch said. "That seems an insurmountable task, removing all the cameras."

"We _could_. In time, we could."

"We?"

"What?"

"You said _we_."

"I didn't." The voice lowered. Fitzgerald pulled at the seatbelt across his torso, restless, as though it were squeezing him. "You dress nicely," he observed. "Are you- are you one of them?"

"I'm not one of them." Patiently. "We're trying to help you."

Fitzgerald grew more agitated. He slammed his head into the headrest and squinted his eyes behind his thick lenses, his mind racing over the day's events. Yesterday, he had made a call, a threat. His apartment ransacked, arrested. Then an escape plan, two strangers he had never met. "Your partner. He's not like you."

"We're helping you," Finch repeated. Slowly, enunciating each word.

"He's military. He's just like the one at the police station. They're all the same. No one believes me. But they want to kill me because it's true. He could be working with the others."

"He rescued you. He risked himself for you."

Fitzgerald was shaking his head. "No… no. Why? Why would he do that?"

_Because I told him not to_ , Finch thought. "Because you deserve to live your life."

Fitzgerald was unclipping his seatbelt now, still shaking his head. "It doesn't make any sense. How did you know where to find me? Why?"

"Mr. Fitzgerald."

"It doesn't make any sense- why?"

"It doesn't matter how we found you." Finch chose his words carefully. "But I believe you."

Fitzgerald quieted. The silence of disbelief.

Of course.

He smiled. "You do, don't you?" He pulled out a phone.

* * *

"God _dam_ mit, John."

A crooked grin flashed in her rearview mirror, gone as quickly as it came. "Miss me?"

"Do you have a death wish?"

A few uniformed cops and a couple of suits streamed past the car and Carter tensed, her hands on the wheel tightening. Reese didn't blink.

"Hide in plain sight, Joss," he said calmly, watching her exhale.

"I should arrest you myself," she answered, eyeing him critically. His hat was pulled low over his ears and she didn't like the flush in his cheeks. Her son had the same look whenever he spiked a fever. "You don't look so great."

"Thanks, you look nice today too." A smile. "New gloves?"

She stared at him, silent but raising an eyebrow.

"Could you turn your scanner on? Please."

"What, you don't have one of your own?"

Another smile. _Maybe._

"That stunt you pulled back there-" Carter shook her head. She was a cop. A good cop. She flipped the scanner on. "I can't, John. I just-"

" _All unit, all units."_

Carter turned the volume up as the dispatch crackled. Apparently several reports had come in about the man in the suit being spotted in and around JFK.

Reese looked pleased. That should buy some time. He reached for the door handle just as her cell phone buzzed.

"Seriously now?" Carter rolled her eyes at the caller ID and gave him a pointed look. Finch.

Reese held a finger up to his lips. _I'm not here._

She gave him a harder look, answering the call. "Lemme guess-"

She was silent, interrupted. Listening. Frowning.

Reese watched her expression, his gloved hand falling back from the door handle as something tightened in his chest. Something was wrong. Why hadn't Finch called him?

"-be there," she was saying.

He reached for the handle again.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

"The airport."

"Seriously, John?"

"Laguardia, Detective." A look: _What kind of idiot do you think I am?_ "I assume you'll follow?"

"John."

"Finch knows I don't like him finding trouble without me." It was said matter-of-factly.

"There's a reason he didn't call you, John."

Reese was already out of the car. Flipping up the collar of his coat as he rounded the corner. Just had to make one stop.

Drumming fingers against his leg as he waited for a van to pass, crossing the street.

He tapped his earpiece as he found a car that would work. Pulled a thin strip of metal out of his jacket, glancing down the block before jimmying the bottom of the driver's side window. "Everything alright, Finch?"

A bus let out a honking exhale of exhaust as it settled at the curb to let some riders off.

In his ear: "Mr. Reese, was that a bus?"

"Hm?" In the car now, fiddling under the steering wheel. The engine coughed to life. The radio popped on with it-loud-and he tapped the knob with his fingers. Silence. The upholstery was freezing. He rubbed his legs, waiting, watching his breath. "Finch?"

"Fine, Mr. Reese." His voice was clipped. "You?"

In a matching tone: "Fine."


	12. Chapter 12

Two operatives waited in a black sedan. A Crown Victoria, government plates. Platt slipped into the back, exchanged a nod with the man in the passenger seat.

He glanced at his watch, pulled out his phone. Dialed a number he had memorized.

"Carter was it? Yes."

He waved to the two up front. _Start the car._

"That man you're after." A pause. "Yes. That one."

The key turned in the ignition, the sedan grumbling to life.

"How would you like to bring him in?"

The two men in the front of the car exchanged a look.

* * *

The fifth level of the airport garage was emptier than the other four, but not by much.

A car door echoed across the expanse, nothing visible from their poorly lit vantage point. Footsteps, the sound of rolling suitcases and a child's laugh. A faint ding of an elevator.

"This is the fastest I travel, I'm afraid." Finch kept his voice even, careful of each word. Walking with him awkwardly, Fitzgerald had pulled at his arm, his try at a quicker pace.

It was a slight exaggeration, Finch's lopsided even-paced gait. But it needed to buy time.

Fitzgerald, obviously displeased. His thick fingers traced a serrated knife in his pocket, one he had pulled on Finch only moments earlier, just outside the car. Ending his conversation with Reese.

"I don't _like_ violence," Fitzgerald had said. "But sometimes, it's the only way."

The call to a reporter on speed dial, one of his blog subscribers, another try at the NSA. _It's happening_ , he had said. Then, a call to the police. Goading, a threat.

He wanted everyone's attention.

"I don't know why I hadn't thought of it," he was saying now, nervous, still agitated with Finch's pace. "Last year I had five subscribers to my blog. Then three. Then one. They started to disappear- a heart attack, a car accident." A glance to Finch, a shake of his head. "We were too small, too vulnerable. It wasn't the right venue."

Another car entered the parking level, its engine rumbling as it pulled up the ramp. Fitzgerald paused as it drove past them. A young family, two children in the backseat.

"And I didn't have _you_. You're good with computers. I know you think I'm crazy. I don't think I am, but-"

"Mr. Fitzgerald, I think you're crazy to do _this_." Finch swung around to face him. "Mass panic has never been an answer. To anything."

Fitzgerald rubbed a hand over his balding head, a rueful laugh. "People deserve to know, Harold. Know that their own government is-"

"Is protecting them?"

"Is _spying_ on them." Fitzgerald spun back, considering Finch's words. Shook his head. Pushed at him. " _Protecting_ them? Do you really believe that?"

Finch gave him a hard look, his lips pressed together tightly. "Yes," he said finally.

Fitzgerald smiled sadly. Another shove. "Keep walking."

* * *

_2007_

Domodedovo airport.

No baggage. A long deserted corridor, their footsteps echoing.

Reese held Kara's arm, gently, a finger to his lips.

There.

A door, closing. Softly.

Deliberately quiet, not the echoing slam of normal travel.

He held up a hand. _Wait here._

The stairwell, empty. Gun in hand, another .22 tucked in the small of his back. Reese listened, thought he heard a shuffle.

He might have been paranoid, on edge from Kara falling back in lead. Her injury. His own, barely healing. A reminder.

"John."

Something in her voice.

Back in the corridor. A curse catching in his throat.

Shit.

Kara met his eye. _Come on, John._

A chokehold around her neck, a young female agent staring him down. Green eyes. Barrel of a gun to Kara's temple.

Shit.

He lifted his own gun. Slowly, running through scenarios in his head.

A voice from behind. "Where is it?"

Keeping Kara in his peripheral vision, he turned just slightly.

The operative from the Square.

"Where is it," the man repeated.

Reese could still hear the words hissed in his ear. _Do you even know what side you're on?_

His eyes flickered back to Kara.

"Shoot me," she was whispering to her captor. The woman was young, her finger trembled on the trigger. "Come on. Do it." He knew Kara said it for his benefit: _We're not what matters._

"Do you even know what you took?"

Reese looked back to the man, focusing on his hands, his stance. Keeping his own weapon trained to the right. Stepped toward him, boldly, staring down the older man's pistol.

He knew what he had taken. A small metal case containing an encrypted drive.

As for what was on the drive?

Not a fucking clue.

The man smiled, a thin scar next to his eye deepening. "You don't, do you?" It was patronizing. "Who'd you give it to?"

Reese cocked his head to the side, holding the man's dark gaze, keeping his own expression neutral. What was he, CIA? DIA?

It didn't matter.

"John."

He glanced at Kara, held her eye. A second passed in slow motion.

She blinked.

He moved.

Looked right, stepped left. Grabbed the pistol aimed for his chest. Twisting with his left hand, forcing a shot, its fire hitting no one. His right arm swung around. A bullet in the man's one leg, a kick to the other to take him down, and then he shot the light above his head.

Glass shattered.

Kara had already twisted herself free in the distraction, throwing an elbow, a well-placed knee. The gun went off, plaster exploding, but the female operative had missed her chance.

The two struggled, breaking apart. The other weapon raised, a split second before Kara's. Instinct. Reese pulled the trigger of his silenced .22 and watched the body crumple to the ground.

Seconds had passed. The scene slowly registering.

He and Kara stood face-to-face now, both with weapons raised. She stepped out from the fallen woman's legs. Her gun lowered.

The man at his feet. His eyes, even darker now, focused on his fallen partner and the crimson pool seeping slowly under her.

Kara muttered a curse, irritated at the scene. There was a faint stain on her own shirt, bleeding through the fabric. She holstered her weapon. "Kill him too."

Reese didn't, but he slammed the butt of his gun into the side of his skull.

A crack.

The man drooped sideways, unconscious, and Kara shook her head. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, watching Reese. He was staring at the two American operatives, his face blank.

"That's why you don't get attached."

He turned his head at the words, looking at her. She smirked.

"Makes you sloppy. He was looking at her the whole fucking time."

Reese's expression didn't change.

She was moving away when he blinked, his frown seen only by the back of her head.

An unmarked side door. They dissolved into the crowded terminal.


	13. Chapter 13

"You too, huh?"

Carter spun around.

Fusco.

She gave him a wary look, glancing around before she moved closer.

"What," he said. Defensively. She was giving him that look. The one where she didn't approve of him. Trust him. "They've got everyone on this."

"Yeah. I can see that."

His frown deepened. "Nice. That hurts, Carter."

She shook her head. The lower level was buzzing with activity now. Suits, uniforms. The media vultures were already converging.

Her radio crackled. She glanced at it, listening a second.

Fusco studied her, surveyed the expanse of the garage. The whole place was closed to traffic. Wonderboy was screwed if he showed up here.

Carter was looking at him again. He didn't like it.

"Any idea the link between your man in the suit and this Fitzgerald guy?"

"Nothing solid."

Fusco shrugged. "Loony Bin probably saw something he wasn't supposed to. Suit wants him gone."

"Or the other way around. Maybe he's saving him from something."

"Maybe," Fusco allowed. Gave her an equally curious look. What did she know? "Thought he was the bad guy here, Carter."

She narrowed her eyes. "What, you know something?"

"No," he said, a little abruptly. "It just… This doesn't seem his MO, right?"

She'd been briefed on the ride over. The BOLO had come up with reports at JFK, but Fitzgerald's recent threats had attracted even more attention.

Seeing as the conspiracy theorist's disappearance from the precinct coincided with a certain man in a suit's escape, not to mention the run-in back at his apartment, Platt took the leap that his rogue agent wouldn't be far behind.

She would have liked if he were wrong.

"No," she admitted. "No, it doesn't."

"I don't get this Platt guy," Fusco said. He read her mind. "I mean, what's his beef anyway? Why the chase?"

They both turned at a commotion over at the west entrance.

An argument between some uniforms and some suits. Carter scanned the garage. No sign of Platt. The last she had seen of him he looked ready to pull his gun and open fire.

Ever she had known Reese, known _of_ Reese, someone had been out for his head. Someone on the side of law. The country. _What had you done, John?_

Why the chase? Because Reese was rogue? A rogue, highly trained killer.

Something didn't add up.

But neither did Fusco.

She used the disturbance as a good excuse to end the conversation.

"Yeah, yeah." Fusco waved her off. His own assigned unit was hitting the terminal span in five. "Catch ya on the flip side."

* * *

Upstairs. Second level.

Sweeping the stairwells, the lines of cars. Platt's directions were simple. The exits were closed, the spans were blocked. One way or another, they would sweep them out.

Dead or alive.

Someone cleared their throat and as Carter turned her head she stifled a cough of her own.

_You've got to be kidding._

Reese flashed a badge. A wink to her, a nod to the other officer at her side. No introduction. "What've we got?"

Carter eyed him skeptically, the badge now hidden under his leather jacket, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

A team on the roof, local law enforcement on the ground. CIA calling the shots. Reese looked back to her as the details flew from the other detective. Saw her expression, the once-over to the bag. Disapproval. He shifted his stance, facing away.

"-upstairs," the man was saying.

He nodded, listening. Half listening.

The briefing over, the plain clothed man excused himself, jogging over to another group that had yelled out, on the scent of something. Their voices echoed off the concrete walls. Something found in the backseat of an unregistered SUV.

Reese kept his eyes alert to any sign of Platt.

"John." His name was hissed.

He turned. Held up the radio he had lifted off the other detective. He held Carter's eye a second, a small smile. _See? You don't have to worry about me._

She was caught between the right move and her next move. "John-"

He saw her hesitation. "Whatever happens, get Finch out, okay?" He was already moving, not giving her a chance. Heading to the stairwell.

She stared after him.

The man had a death wish.

* * *

Fourth level. Prowling down the aisle of cars, searching for the man in the suit, for Fitzgerald, gun at the ready. Quietly.

There, crouched behind the side of a mini van.

Two figures. One balding and heavy-set, matching the description of the threat. The other donned an expensive suit, but his image didn't quite align with the tall, dark description he had been briefed on.

The young agent raised his service weapon, readying himself. Took a breath.

"Freeze!"

Suddenly a figure was behind him, quickly disarming him, almost breaking his arm. They slammed into a parked car. Crashed back into another.

The suit fought back well. He was young- firey. It took a third knee to his center of mass before he finally crumpled to the pavement.

Reese gave a serious thought to shooting him in the kneecap. His finger twitched on the trigger.

"Mr. Reese!"

Reese looked up from the fallen suit at the sound of Finch's voice. Moved away from the unconscious body. His employer was giving him an odd look.

"Finch." Slipping the gun into his waistband at the small of his back. "I know, you told me to stay-" The black bag slid off Reese's shoulder, dropping to the cement with a metallic clink. He was catching his breath. Unapologetic. "Never been good at that."

Finch stepped forward but Fitzgerald jumped between them, the knife he had stolen from the safe house now clutched in his fat fingers.

Reese gave him a tired look.

"C'mon, Chris-"

"Stay _back_ ," Fitzgerald warned, out of breath already. His eyes dared Reese to come closer.

Reese came closer. Grabbed his wrist and twisted, though not as hard as he wanted to.

The dull knife clattered to the cement floor.

The short man yelped, cradling his wrist as Reese shoved him backward. Just as hard as he wanted to. Fitzgerald thumped into the side of the van.

Reese squatted next to his duffel bag, starting to unzip. The adrenaline was wearing off- he could feel his heart beating, each pump of blood pulsed into his burning side. He pushed through it; it would be over soon enough.

"You should get down," he told them.

A crackle came over his radio. A pipe bomb found, in the span from the garage to the terminals.

An unimpressed glance to Fitzgerald. "Those your friends?"

"Yes-" Fitzgerald was completely flustered, "but that wasn't the plan. It wasn't the plan-"

"Get down," Reese repeated. He knew there wouldn't be much time. The radio crackled again.

Third level clear.

A very large rifle slid out of the black duffel. It was set to the side. Finch eyed the trigger button that followed.

"Mr. Reese? I'm not sure I'm in favor of your tactics here."

"Sorry, Finch." Reese met his eye. _I'm really not sorry. "_ I'm not sure I'm in favor of your situation here."

There was suddenly yelling from the other side of the parking level.

"John."

"Get down," he repeated. Finch could fire him later. "It's time for Plan B."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reunited! One more chapter to go, should be up in the next day or so.


	14. Chapter 14

They stormed in like a small army, streaming across the fourth level from two stairwells, east and west.

The echoes of footsteps, shouting.

A windshield shattered.

His body begged out of the crouched position but Reese's grip on his arm was unnecessary- a locked vice, keeping him below the profile of the vehicle. He wasn't going anywhere.

Finch flinched. The gunshots, the breaking glass. He resisted the urge to plug his ears. He looked to Fitzgerald, who was doing just that, face red and shiny, his eyes squeezed shut.

Reese stood and fired, three times. Three sets of knees buckled, three men down. He squatted again, reloading with a slap, drawing a breath. Squinted, rubbing between his eyes. Saw Finch watching him and straightened.

They couldn't get cornered.

"We have to move." Reese tucked away the smaller gun. Thought about offering it to his employer, but already knew the answer. Grabbed the larger rifle with his left hand, yanked the strap of the duffel bag with his right.

Something tore in his side.

A yell from southwest corner of the garage.

They had to move.

He ignored the pain, keeping low as he moved toward Fitzgerald's position at the other end of the van.

They would have to separate.

The chubby man eyed him warily as he leaned in. "You were right on one thing." Reese's voice was low but even. "I'm not really one of the good guys."

"But-"

"So much as touch him and I promise you-I'll carve out your eyes with that butter knife."

Fitzgerald swallowed.

Reese felt Finch behind him now and stopped, gave Fitzgerald a forced smile. He turned, handing Finch the radio and then stood, firing twice. A spray of bullets in return, he sank down quickly.

A voice echoing through a megaphone: If he put down his weapon and came out, it would all be okay.

He resisted an urge to flip them the bird over the side of the car.

"There'll be a lot of smoke," he said. "In...-" a glance to a watch- "one minute." Pulling the strap of the bag over his shoulder, still squatting on his heels.

"Are you coming with us?" It was Fitzgerald asking.

Reese didn't answer.

"John?" Finch looked at him. _You are coming?_

Reese kept his gaze forward, not meeting Finch's eye.

An explosion in the northern corner of the garage, the vibration shook the concrete beneath their feet.

A chorus of car alarms.

"Hm. Little early." Reese almost sounded amused.

Finch gave him a look.

"That's your cue," Reese said, pushing at Fitzgerald. "Stairwell."

Smoke was billowing, an acrid smell was filling the level. They used it as cover, making their way to the south stairwell door.

He had laid a hidden trail of remote detonated smoke grenades along their path to the terminal span. The stairwells, the garage. Once there, it was just a matter of blending into the terminal, getting Fitzgerald to the security checkpoint.

Or whatever Finch decided to do with him.

Finch was too good, too kind. Finch would let him go.

Finch gave second chances. Deserved or undeserved.

"Hey, Harold?" At the door, Reese turned. Hesitated. Barely audible over the noise. "Thanks."

Finch frowned. The thank you sounded more like an apology.

"-Reese!"

Platt.

A bullet whizzed silently from the opposite corner of the garage. The three dodged behind a smaller sedan. The door was right there, the smoke was looming.

Reese pushed at them.

" _Go_." His eyes now trained to the northwest corner, toward the voice.

There seemed a hesitation behind him.

He glanced at Finch. _Why aren't you moving?_

The smoke was starting to dissipate, but he still couldn't make out figures. Reese let the duffle bag fall off his shoulder to the ground.

"Please," he said, and then regretted it, the hint of desperation in his voice. He squatted down, not looking back.

They were through the door, it slammed shut behind him. Reese stood up, firing a round of unaimed shots so that no one could follow.

Concrete crackled.

Car alarms still sang. A group yelled something and he could feel them moving in closer.

Well.

Fuck.

The anxiety he had felt earlier was gone, diluted out by a feeling of resignation.

So long as it was just him. He could be okay with this.

He knew the cost of things. Of each decision, weighted down by another.

Reese stood. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, finger soft on the trigger. Breathed in.

The haze, still thick in pockets, had cleared enough to make him a reasonable target.

He met Platt's eye. The blackness there, the hate.

He didn't hate anyone like that.

Not anymore.

He didn't even _feel_ anything like that.

The shot rang out, an echo in the garage over the sound of alarms. A siren in the distance.

Platt fell to his knees, a red blooming flower on his shirt that grew and grew and he was dying, Reese knew, as he held his stare.

And he felt nothing.

Shots rang back at him and he moved quickly, pulling the safety on the rifle, shouldering the bag as the suits moved in, surrounding Platt. For the first time, he noted the lack of NYPD.

If there was one thing the CIA could do, it was clean up their own mess.

He had to disappear before the path of smoke fully cleared.

They would dissolve into the crowd as though they were never there. Just as he would.

His finger had never pulled the trigger.

* * *

His face still flushed, his eyes still darting around.

The bespectacled man in front of him wasn't military, wasn't law enforcement. No government agency.

But Fitzgerald was no longer trying to piece it together.

"We can never speak of this," he told Finch. The terminal buzzed around them, a world away from the parking garage.

There was extra security, maybe, but no one glanced their way.

Finch was watching him, evaluating his choices.

The flight would leave in thirty minutes. Not a lot of time to weigh the implications, to determine if he were making the right decision. To fabricate some explanation.

The man had been desperate, but perhaps not dangerous.

The crackle of the radio informed him of the agent down, the cease and desist for the NYPD.

After that, the airwaves were silent.

Finch felt tired.

"Clean passport, plane tickets, a bank card to a well-funded account in your new name. Please, Mr. Fitzgerald, go and live your life."

* * *

Later, Reese sat in the uncomfortable chair, the wooden one that swiveled, and alternated between staring out the library window and taking apart his Glock.

The third time he pulled the barrel out of the slide, he did it with his eyes closed.

He rolled the metal in his hands. Finch hadn't said much, hadn't looked his way more than once since he'd gotten back. Nor had he asked him to leave, to stop fidgeting, to stop taking his guns apart.

When Finch had come in and found him there, waiting by the window, he had stopped and stared a minute. A look on his face, something different, but no smile.

Reese looked over to the main desk again, swiveling in the chair. The seat was uncomfortable, yes, but he didn't have to twist his hurting body to change his vantage point.

Steady typing. There were lines of code on three screens now, not just two. The walkie-talkie from earlier sat on its side behind the furthest monitor.

Finch hadn't even asked what happened.

He swiveled back. Looked at the window. Snow was falling again, back-lit by the glow of the streetlights.

Finch always knew more than he let on.

The chair creaked as Reese shifted in his seat.

He was waiting for the inevitable.

Finch would no doubt maintain that manner of speech where he spoke slowly, deliberately. The way he talked when he felt the need to _explain_ things. Enunciating certain key phrases. Rationalizing. Where he just … made sense.

There was a certain comfort level to how Finch sometimes just made sense.

He would probably find himself agreeing. There was nothing to defend, really.

Yes, Mr. Reese, you are quite stealthy and can work a gun, but if you anticipate getting yourself shot on a weekly basis, threatening our numbers, and having entire swat teams vying for your hide, then, well, this probably isn't going to work out.

All true, Finch. Roger that.

He would get drunk tonight. Very drunk.

He didn't know what the hell he would do with tomorrow.

"Mr. Reese."

 _Here it comes._ His jaw set, a tightening in his gut.

His chair creaked. He looked up.

It didn't come.

"You didn't like him," Finch said. He was staring at the photo of Fitzgerald, still taped to the glass board. Protruding eyes behind those coke-bottle rims. "Or trust him."

Reese knew it wasn't a question. He looked at the photo too, wanted to take it down. The typing had paused, the room suddenly quiet.

"Yet you didn't question saving him." Finch looked to Reese but the younger man's gaze was guarded. He waited, but the expression gave away nothing. A trained blankness.

After the time spent with a loquacious Fitzgerald, the quiet of Reese was a strange contrast.

Finch went back to the coding. He hadn't planned on doing this, not tonight. But it was welcome busywork. A mental catharsis.

"Do you think he'll do it?"

He paused over the keyboard. "Do what?"

"Start over. Live his life."

Finch had mulled the same, the whole trip back. "It's a lot to ask of someone. To change their name, to give up the life they know." A sideways glance. _Isn't it?_

There was something raw about the smile Reese gave him.

"When we started this, I don't think I anticipated those particular nuances."

When Nathan had started this, saving the numbers.

He sometimes sensed they'd set off a domino effect of unknown proportion.

Reese let the words hang in the air a minute. Then, "We?"

"Mm." Finch's eyes were back to the screens. He was done now, his train of thought coming unraveled. He had begun checking his work.

He didn't need to check his work.

Shifting slightly to glance to Reese: _Don't._

Reese didn't. He went back to swiveling in the old chair, letting it creak. Staring at the metal in his hands, rolling it absently. Tallying it away.

Nathan. Nathan Ingram.

Finch watched him in the reflection off one of the monitors. Thought about dismissing him, sending him home to rest. But after the past few days there was something reassuring about having him in sight.

"Besides," he said finally. "What's in a name?" Breaking the silence. "A rose by any other name, as they say." He twisted to look at Reese as though expecting an acknowledgment.

Reese blinked. "A rose?"

" _Shakespeare_ , Mr. Reese." Finch gave him an unimpressed look. Gestured to the expanse of books surrounding them. "I don't suppose you'll ever take advantage? When you're not ... playing with your guns?"

"I know Shakespeare, Finch." Reese gave a look of his own. He did take advantage, starting with the ones he found already off the shelves. But Finch didn't need to know that. " _Playing_?"

Finch raised his eyebrows as he turned back to his screens. _Just saying._

Reese watched as a series of windows were closed and minimized. Some typing, but minimal. He set the Glock to the side. "What's yours then?"

Finch shifted back to look at him. "My…"

"Your name," he said evenly. He waited, saw a flicker of a smile on his employer's face.

Maybe, he thought. Just maybe.

But no.

Almost.

The typing resumed.

"You know, Harold, sooner or later you're gonna have to trust someone."

Finch slowly swiveled in his own chair, facing him now. _Really_ , his expression read.

Reese gave a small shrug. A tiny quirk at the side of his mouth, there and gone.

"Kettle black, Mr. _Reese_." A pointed look.

Reese said nothing.

I trust you, he wanted to say.

But he didn't.

He took his cue, standing slowly. As smoothly as he could manage. If Finch weren't there, he might have cursed.

It could be a whiskey night after all.

"You have an appointment tomorrow," Finch informed him, watching his movements carefully. "Mr. John Rooney had a skeet shooting incident."

"Skeet shooting." Reese turned slowly, making a face. "Finch."

"Tried to self-treat." A pause. "Unsuccessfully."

" _Finch_."

"9 am."

The gate clattered as it closed and Finch heard something muttered, unintelligible. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

"Trust, Mr. Reese." To an empty room.

A soft tone, a computerized bell. He opened his eyes, watching the screen and its blinking cursor.

Trust.


End file.
